Staying Alive
by SuzetteB
Summary: Sherlock comes face to face with his sworn enemy, who has kidnapped one of the only people he ever loved, and who is also somehow connected to someone neither Sherlock nor Mycroft ever expected to see again.
1. Chapter 1 Renae & Billie

Chapter 1 Renae and Billie

"Not him, he's an idiot," she snapped in a whisper as she and her friend trotted past a man on a park bench.

"What makes you say that?" the girl asked, confused.

She swallowed and faced her friend, not slowing down her pace. "Just broke up, obviously wanting for money; up for rebound - not worth your time."

The two twenty-something girls walked the rest of the way to the car in silence, the cold winter air blowing their scarves in the wind. Renae wanted to make sure her friend would find a nice guy at college, not some random loser who couldn't be trusted as far as she could throw him. Though she wasn't technically the oldest child, she had grown up like one (which is a complicated story in of itself), which explained why she was protective of all of her younger friends.

Renae's friend piped up once they were comfortably seated in the car. "How could you possibly know that from just walking past him?"

Renae just smirked. How could people NOT see these sorts of things? "I guess going through four years of college teaches you a few things," she offered as the explanation.

Her friend didn't buy it.

"Really, Renae, tell me," her friend insisted.

She looked at her friend with a piercing stare, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sharp green eyes peeking through her curly bangs.

"I have two brothers. Well, two who are alive," her voice trailed off to a whisper at the end. She waited to see if this answer would suffice.

There was a considerable period of silence. "Okay...?" the other girl prodded. She wasn't buying that either.

"Alright, I guess I'll tell you then," Renae sighed with a slight roll of the eyes. It had been a secret long enough. She was safe here in America, after all. She had grown up here, acclimated to the culture, and even developed an accent. There was no way anyone could hurt her now.

"I have two brothers. One is in the British government," she stopped and looked down, smiling.

"And the other?"

Another glare from those all-knowing green eyes. "Oh, he's a detective."

"I'm not repeating the instructions again, Sherlock," John hissed as he set the unfolded paper on the dresser.

"I wasn't listening to you anyways," Sherlock mumbled, still tediously picking at each piece of the kit strewn across the nursery floor.

John threw his hands in the air. "We'll never get this thing finished if you don't pay attention to the instructions!"

"The instructions are wrong, John!"

"And how do you know that? You said you weren't listening."

A moment of silence from Sherlock as he continued trying to put together the baby cot. "Because of the type of ink used on the instructions sheet."

"You made that up."

"Perhaps."

Sherlock's face was still facing the floor, immersed in the project, but John could tell he had that smug half-smile he made when he knew he was annoying someone.

Mary came in and gasped with delight. "How lovely!" She walked around the room to inspect the freshly painted lilac purple walls and in-progess baby's bed. "Everything looks so good!" Sherlock continued looking down at the wood and screws within his reach. "And how's that cot coming along?"

"Well, actually -" John began to answer.

"Fine! Just...fine," Sherlock butted in.

John looked at Mary with the get-me-out-of-here look.

"Okay," she nodded, understanding the difficulty of the task they had undertaken. "How about we all take a break?"

Sherlock's head jolted up. "Where's Billie?" he inquired calmly.

"Just out there," Mary pointed to the next room with her thumb, "Why don't you go see her!"

Sherlock scrambled to his feet to see his best friend's newborn baby girl. He tenderly lifted her from her playpen and smiled as she cooed at him. Holding her against his chest with both hands, he carried her into her soon-to-be bedroom.

"So glad you had the foresight to opt for something other than baby pink," Sherlock's voice took a disgusted turn at the words "baby pink." He bounced her lightly when she began fussing. "It is statistically less likely for little girls to want everything they own to be pink beyond the age of five."

His text alert sounded. "John, my phone," he didn't budge either hand from the grasp he had on tiny little Billie.

"It's in your pocket, Sherlock. You can reach it," John didn't want to give up on the screw he had almost completely gotten into one of the cot legs.

Mary laughed at the helpless look Sherlock gave and took her baby, freeing him to give full attention to his text. It was Lestrade.

"St. Bart's," is all the text said.

"Got to run," he said as he dropped his phone back into his pocket and walked toward the sofa for his coat and scarf.

"But, wait... I was nearly... I'm almost," John stammered as he struggled to get the screw the rest of the way into the wooden leg.

Mary grabbed it with her spare hand. "Go." She sat down on the floor with her daughter and put the screwdriver to the cot leg.

"Really?" John started to ask, but Sherlock was already out the door, yelling at him to hurry up.

"Go!" Mary insisted, louder this time.

"Right. Okay," John hurried out and grabbed his coat. "Thank you, Mary!" He closed the door behind him, leaving Mary with a mess of screws and wooden boards around her.

She had the baby's bed finished in thirty minutes.


	2. Chapter 2 Vagabond on the Roof

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Thank you for those who have found my little story and were kind enough to follow and favorite it! I never really expected this much attention from only one chapter. You all are lovely and I would love it if you left comments after this chapter. I have chapter 3 ready to publish, so I just might release it early if you're intersted. Chapter 3 is where the ball gets rolling and things REALLY start to get interesting. Thank you again for reading my story and I hope you like what you read! It's a really exciting story I've had in my head for quite a while! Prepare for lots of adventure, angst, feels and maybe a tear or two!

Chapter 2 Vagabond on the Roof

Renea sat on her bed, a spread of papers surrounding her as she delved deeper into her studies. Occassionally she ran a quick search on her laptop or muched on her M&Ms. A doctorate degree wasn't going to come without a little help from chocolate.

She heard footsteps outside her apartment and instintively glanced at a small black duffle bag beside her window. She relaxed when the sound of footsteps gradually died out, trying to give her graduate studies full attention once more. For some reason the ability to focus was gone.

Coffee, she thought. Caffeine always helps. High doses of beautiful, wonderful caffeine.

She was about to pull herself up when the smoke alarm went off in the hallway of the apartment building.

So, she thought, this is how they've chosen to do it.

Renae opened the the window in her bedroom, but instead of tossing her duffle bag out, she dragged it into her closet, then hustled about putting on boots and tying up her long, wavy hair.

More footsteps.

Then a violent knock at the door.

"Oh no you don't," she whispered as she hurriedly strapped a holster onto her waist and pulled a handgun out of her dresser.

"Fire evacuation, miss," the voice on the other side of her living room door invited softly, but stopped abruptly after "miss," as if he was going to keep speaking but decided against it.

There were at least five of them, by the sound of hurried feet walking to her apartment door. She didn't answer, although she would have loved to, having practiced twenty years worth of snarky remarks directed towards the man who wanted her dead.

"We're evacuating everyone, and we will have to force our way in if you fail to cooperate," the same man taunted again, this time a laugh from behind him.

She strutted up to the door and swung it open. The five burly men started towards her, but then took a step back.

Renae was dressed in all black and carried two knives and a gun on her person - literally dressed to kill. Her ensemble was complete with gloves and a mask. "Were you stupid enough to think I wouldn't be ready when you came for me?" her eyes fell on the oldest in the group, a stocky man with an eye patch and two missing teeth.

Once they had regained their composure, they all put on their "tough guy" stances and lunged for her. Cute, she thought as she jumped in the air and kicked one of them in the face, then whipped around and twisted his wrist behind his back. He yelped in pain as she blocked another one of them from punching her and split-kicked two of them at a time, sending them to the ground, doubled over in pain. The puncher became the punchee when Renae shoved her fist into his nose.

One of the men, the smallest and youngest, slipped past the others and searched Renae's apartment. She finished off the paid attackers, leaving them lying in the hallway with broken bones, bleeding noses, and an assortment of bodily pains, and made her way into her bedroom.

The last man standing was facing her, one of her guns in his trembling hands (he must have found that one under her pillow), with sweat beading down his forehead. She couldn't help but smirk at the pathetic sight.

"Don't move... or... or I'll shoot!" his voice quaked.

Renae put her hands on her hips and just laughed. She couldn't help it. He was terrified. It was quite amusing.

She stopped her laughter abruptly and stared at him with an intensity that made him gulp. "No you won't!" she teased with a sing-song voice before she grabbed his armed hand and in one swift movement twisted it around so the gun was now - somehow - in her hands.

The young man gulped again and started running as fast as he could out the door. Renae shot a couple of teaser shots just to scare him, then dropped the gun on her bed. She heard the faint sound of ambulance sirens, then realized that the entire apartment building had evacuated and curious, terrified eyes were peeking into the front door.

The ambulance sirens were getting louder.

"Well, this is ideal," she muttered as she tied her bed sheets together and made a rope to lower herself out of her still open window.

Police car sirens were getting close now.

"Oh, forget this," she growled, but dropped the makeshift rope out the window anyway. The recently rogue young lady escaped onto the roof through the attic in her closet, grabbing her duffle bag on the way out.

So this is it, she contemplated as the sounds of emergency crews went on below her.I'm being hunted... again. The one person I thought I could trust... She peeked over the edge of the roof, to see her "friend" on the outskirts of the crowd that had accumulated since the smoke alarm sounded.

Hurt filled her heart, and then anger. Her "friend" was obviously working for the enemy the entire time they were acquainted. She sighed and hung her head, realizing that there was only one place she could go now...

Back to England.


	3. Chapter 3 The Game Is On

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Thank you to everyone reading! Please leave a review; feedback makes me very happy. And a happy writer = faster updates! :)

Chapter 3 The Game Is on

"Found in the cargo area of a plane arriving at London City Airport," Lestrade offered as Sherlock briefly examined the body of a man in his upper fifties to mid sixties.

As Sherlock stepped away from the slab, John noticed that Molly was standing to the side, a bit too quiet.

"Anything interesting about this one, Molly?" John inquired.

She turned her head but tried not to make eye contact. She pulled off her purple latex gloves. "I never knew him personally, but I know who he was."

"Any information would be greatly appreciated," John tried to keep it professional but could tell she was uneasy.

She finally looked up. "He was Tom's dad."

Renae wasted no time getting to the Mother Country. A life-or-death situation leaves little time to waste. She knew it was only a matter of time until the man who wanted her dead would realize where she had retreated.

She turned on her tablet and went to one of her bookmarked sites, The Science of Deduction. She put on her headphones and began watching some BBC shows she had downloaded onto her phone. She had to look and sound the part if she was going to blend in with the culture in which she was about to immerse herself. Of course, she had already practiced; this was the final rehearsal before her big performance.

Thankfully, nobody bothered her on the plane.

"He had just returned from America," Lestrade spoke to all three of them.

"What was he doing in America?" Sherlock spat out.

"How should I know?" Lestrade shrugged. "Anyway, it's probably not important..."

"It's important," Sherlock interrupted. "Is there anything else at all about his stay in America that would prove relevant?" He seemed to be directing the question at Molly this time.

"Sherlock, Tom and I broke it off a long time ago. I have no insight on any of his family's doings. I never even met the man."

Sherlock started to sigh but stopped as his text alert sounded. He paused to open the message.

Come play with me. xx

He instantly turned to leave, John reluctantly following.

"Wait a second, have you got anything for me? Any ideas at all?" Lestrade almost shouted.

"Five, so far," Sherlock raised his voice slightly so he wouldn't have to face Lestrade or Molly. "I'll text you later if I think of any more. Keep an eye on Molly."

"What?" Lestrade was worried now.

Sherlock turned and shouted so Lestrade would hear him, "Someone is in serious danger. Anyone with ties to this dead man is now in danger. Don't let anything happen to her. Molly, whatever you do, do not in any way contact Tom or his family!"

And with that, the detective and his blogger were gone.

Lestrade shook his head. "What do you suppose he's on about?"

Molly just shrugged and looked towards the closed doors.

"So, where did you say you were going again?" John asked, a bit confused.

"I didn't," Sherlock responded curtly, not even looking at him. The remainder of the cab ride was uncomfortably quiet.

"Well at least tell me when I can expect you back so I'll know when to start worrying," John pressed when the cab reached Baker Street.

"Who are you, my mother?"

"Right. Okay. Just don't be daft, alright?" John instructed as he paid for his share of the ride and got out. "Because every time you go off on your own, something-"

"Yes, thank you for your input."

"Bloody git." John slammed the door and made his way to the door.

"St. Bart's," Sherlock told the cabbie.

The plane crew seemed nervous upon arrival. It took unusually long for the seat belt light to turn off and everyone around her was whispering among themselves.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for any inconvenience regarding the long wait to unboard. We encountered a 'situation' in the cargo area and have resolved it," one of the attendants announced over the intercom.

Renae's heart began beating like she had been running for twenty minutes.

On the way out of the plane, she noticed a slight break in the corridor wall and pressed her face against the crack to see below the plane. She gasped before a flight attendant tore her away.

Right outside the cargo area was a body, on a stretcher, covered with a white sheet, surrounded by an emergency crew.

Sherlock opened the shaft to the roof of St. Bart's and instantly felt the cold air beating against him. He climbed out and pulled his collar tighter around his neck, trying to keep warm against the heartless chilly air. He looked up to see a complete deja vu of what he remembered over two years ago.

There was Moriarty, sitting on the edge of the roof, calmly waiting for Sherlock's arrival. No music played this time - only the constant hissing of the wind provided ambiance for the two genius' second meeting.

"Sherlock," Moriarty smiled, still seated with his hands clasped. "Long time, no see! I see you've been dabbling with my toys... naughty boy. Daddy doesn't like it when you meddle with his playthings."

"You should be impressed. It took me two years to gather all the threads you scattered around the world." Sherlock was slowly walking closer to Moriarty, hands behind his back, bitter cold air blowing his air in every direction.

"Well I hope you knitted yourself a nice, cozy jumper with all those threads, it's bloody cold up here," he smirked while standing to his feet.

The two walked in a tight circle, like two hungry sharks cautiously swimming in the ocean, not daring to tear their eyes off of each other.

"What do you want?" Sherlock finally broke the intense silence. The two stopped pacing and faced each other.

Moriarty shrugged and poked out his bottom lip, then shook his head while looking down. "Just wanted to know if you missed me." He made eye contact with Sherlock once again and grinned his wicked, toothy grin.

Sherlock's furrowed brows and pursed lips didn't waver at the cutesy joke.

"Oh come on, Sherlock!" he giggled with outstretched arms. "You know you missed this. These little games we play!"

"How are you not dead?" Sherlock turned the tables on Moriarty. "To jump off a building is one thing, but to shoot yourself in the mouth, only to walk away... That is a puzzle indeed."

"It takes one to know one!" the sing-song voice teased. "Not important. I was just making sure you were up to another round of Jim Beats Sherlock. It's nice when both parties agree to play."

Sherlock spoke through his teeth. "I am not playing any of your games."

"Oh, but you are, my dear," he spoke softly as he nodded. "You already are."

Sherlock's phone rang.

John.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's bad, it's very bad," John's voice was quivering and sounded sick.

Sherlock glared at Moriarty.

Moriarty simply poked his lip out again and shrugged.

"Tell me what's wrong," Sherlock responded.

"It's Billie," John's voice cracked. "She's gone. Mary left her in her cot for ten minutes and when she came back... she was gone."

"John, I need you to stay as calm as pos-"

"Calm? My newborn daughter is missing!"

Sherlock could tell that John was silently weeping.

"John, it's okay-"

"Okay? Okay? It's not okay, Sherlock!"

"I'll be there soon," Sherlock finished and hung up. His eyes met Moriarty's with a fierceness that only lit up when one of the most precious people in his life was endangered.

"I swear, if you lay a finger on that child-" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, his finger pointed straight at his sworn enemy.

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed, hands in his pockets. The wind blew his hair around and his breaths were puffs of smoke in the cold air.

"Oh Sherlock, nothing is going to happen to... Billie, was it?" He took a step toward Sherlock. "Cute how John and Mary actually named her after you."

"I will kill you for this." Sherlock had never said that to anyone. Because he never really meant it for anyone. This time, he really, truly meant it.

Moriarty giggled again and started to say something, but was interrupted by his own phone ringing.

Ah, ah, ah, ah! Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive!

Moriarty rolled his eyes, took one hand out of his pocket, and answered his phone.

"Hello? ... Oh hi, love! I didn't recognize the number! Must be new, eh? ... Oh? Don't know a thing about it, sweetheart, must be that old bugger from the Carl Powers case." He chuckled lightly. "Yes of course we can have tea. Anything to get England back into your veins. You sound far too American for my taste. ... Okay I'll see you then. Ta!"

Moriarty pressed End and looked up from his phone. An evil grin crawled over his face.

Sherlock tried so very hard to force a stoic, unmoved stare on his face, but something betrayed him... a feeling deep inside that he - and Mycroft - had buried long ago, for the sole purpose of protecting their baby sister. Why was he shaking? Stop it, you fool, you don't shake with fear.

Moriarty just chuckled and sang as he waved his phone beside his face, "Guess who!"


	4. Chapter 4 Lost & Found

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! :)

Chapter 4

John kept one arm around his sobbing wife and the other around his phone as he continued to make calls. Mary, as strong of a woman as she was, had been completely shattered in a matter of minutes. She knew John felt the exact same way, except he was attempting to keep it together just long enough to start the search party. They both sat on the floor in the exact position they fell to when they found the yellow sticky note that said "GET SHERLOCK" with a smiley in the "O."

Sherlock stormed in, breathing heavily, and went straight into Billie's nursery.

"It's no use, Sherlock," John hoarsely choked as he swallowed a sob. "He left without a trace."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." They couldn't see him, but could tell that he was moving around the room quickly.

"Well, he did leave this," John said as he lifted up the note.

Sherlock poked his head out of the door and read the sticky note from across the room. He rolled his eyes. Of course he left the "Get Sherlock" message.

"Have you phoned Lestrade?" he questioned, walking towards the frightened parents.

"Of course we have - we've phoned everyone," John's shaky voice replied. "We called the police, Greg, relatives, friends, the papers, the news..." He looked down at Mary. She only gasped and sobbed in reply.

Sherlock looked at the clock directly behind John and Mary on the wall. "It's been nearly seven minutes. Have the police arri-"

Three hurried knocks on the door interrupted him, to everyone's relief. Sherlock opened the door immediately and in walked Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan.

"I came as fast as I could," Greg Lestrade was the one out of breath this time.

John and Mary stood up to greet the familiar faces. Mary finally spoke up. "Thank you for coming," she nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

"Of course." Lestrade nodded in response, then turned his head. Anderson took the hint and made his way into the nursery with a small case of forensic equipment.

"I see you got your job back," John forced a smile as he stood in the doorway, watching Anderson carefully collect samples.

"Yeah, it's good to be back," he responded cheerfully.

There was a faint knock on the door downstairs, so soft that only Sherlock heard it. While everyone else was talking - Donovan and Lestrade gently questioning Mary, John trying to make conversation with Anderson - Sherlock slowly walked downstairs to answer the door.

The flat was laid out almost exactly like the one John and Sherlock had shared on Baker Street, including the staircase right by the door. He paused by the large black door and stared at it, a chill running up his spine. He put his hand to the doorknob and pulled.

There, standing in front of him, was a mess of dark - almost black - hair, pulled loosely to the side, and a pair of big, green eyes. She was wearing an emerald colored button-up shirt and a green and brown wool pencil skirt with brown heels. She was the picture of unassuming class and beauty. No one would have thought that less than 48 hours ago she was battling five burly men right outside her apartment.

Well, no one except Sherlock, of course. Bruised knuckles, bandaged index finger, the attentiveness of someone well-learned in martial arts... It was a bit obvious, really.

Sister.

It was his baby sister.

A smile escaped the corner of his mouth.

She grinned. "Dear brother," she whispered.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Renae dropped her small black duffle bag and jumped forward. Sherlock threw his arms open to catch her and they embraced until neither of them could hold back the tears any longer. They just rocked side to side, weeping, for the first time in twenty years. Neither of them had a clue how long they hugged, but not even an hour could have been long enough for all the time that had been lost.

Renae broke the embrace and quickly started explaining. "I would have gone upstairs and made a big, dramatic entrance, but I saw the police, so of course I didn't want to look suspicious... And a man was found dead in my plane today... My friend back home must have connections to him somehow, because I told her what you and Mycroft do and next thing I know, I'm being chased out of my-"

"Please do shut up," Sherlock interjected. "You told someone? Why on earth did you do that?" He sounded disgusted with her apparent lack of discretion.

"Sherlock, it's been twenty years!" Her American accent contrasted his but she sounded just as disgusted. "Most of Moran's men are too old to get out of a chair without help!"

"What are you calling yourself now?"

"Renae."

"Renae what?"

"Holmes."

Sherlock threw his head back and sighed. "What did you keep your last name for? I'm surprised someone didn't find you sooner."

"There's lots of Holmes' in America!"

"Is there."

"There is."

Sherlock took her bag and turned to the steps. "You still have lots of explaining to do."

"Well you don't; by the state of your hands and pant legs, I'd say you've been frolicking around in St. Bart's again."

Sherlock turned and glared at her. "Stop it."

She threw her head back and followed him up the stairs, grinning from ear to ear but never for a moment letting him see that she was the happiest girl in the world at the moment. Escaped America with her life and deduced her big brother, and it wasn't even lunch time yet. Well, actually it was past lunch time, and she was starving.

Mary's eyes were dry and she was sitting on the couch between Greg and Sally, giving them any bits and pieces of information that she thought might aid them in their search for her missing child. John and Anderson both had gloves on, at this point, swabbing everything and putting a sample of the note under a slide. The group was hardly moved when Sherlock entered, but suddenly the room went silent when the young woman behind him closed the door behind her.

She just smiled and waved. "Uh, hi!" Her eyes darted around the room and had all the information she needed in about two seconds._ Baby room, playpen, new parents, mother stopped crying five - no, seven - minutes ago, father probably in the medical field - oh wait that's John Watson! - police got here two and a half minutes before I did, ohhh the older guy is hot, can't say the same for the other guy..._

"My name is Renae," she continued. "I'm Mycroft and-"

"Sherlock's sister," John finally snapped out of his shock and finished her sentence by beginning his. "You're... Sherlock's sister."

"Excellent deduction," Renae answered brightly. She turned to the shaken but strong mother. "And you must be Mary! It's so good to meet you!"

Mary smiled, for a moment, putting aside her fear and hurt. "Oh, the pleasure is mine, my dear!" Renae stuck out her hand and Mary shook it warmly.

"I must apologize for my sister," Sherlock coldly interrupted. "If she had the common sense of a goat, she would have realized upon arrival that this is a horrible time for her to welcome herself into your home."

"And if my_ charming_ brother had the sense of a lab rat, he would have already pointed out that your kidnapper left a trail of roofing shingle specks all the way out the front door."

Anderson and Donovan jumped to action while Lestrade looked from Renae to Sherlock, and then back to Renae. "May God have mercy on us all," he mumbled. "Now there's two of them!"

Without warning, the door opened again. There stood a brunette woman in a suit jacket and skirt, engrossed in a text she was typing on her phone. She looked up and smiled politely at everyone, then looked directly at Renae.

"I'm to take you away," Anthea suggested casually, then turned to leave.

Renae took a quick glance at the well-dressed lady. Expensive clothes, hair not an inch out of place, but well worn shoes, judging by the soles. Her suit jacket had a bow in the back, but it was too perfectly tied to be done by the wearer or just any old non-OCD fool. She had deduced everything she needed to know and grinned.

"Is Mycroft excited to see me?" she inquired, only for Anthea to give a courtesy smile before typing another text on her way down the stairs.

"Both brothers in one day, and it's not even - hey ma'am, I'm hungry," Renae's voice died out as she rushed down the steps and out the door.

Mary gasped and put her face in her palm. "I didn't even offer the poor child tea!"

John smiled -a real, proper smile - for the first time that day. Blinking and furrowing his brows, he asked Sherlock, "So, you have a sister. And she is American. Care to explain?"

Sherlock wanted to say "No, not really," but instead gave the short version of what he knew she would tell them eventually. "When I solved the Carl Powers case and tried to get the police involved, one of Moriarty's accomplices threatened me with my life. I didn't think much of it. But when my sister turned five, the same man began threatening to kill her. We all knew she wasn't safe, and secretly sent her across the pond to relatives distant enough to not cause any suspicion. She changed her family, her name... She spent her entire life in hiding. And now, here she is again. Mummy is going to want to see her too," he sighed. Mummy always made a big deal out of those sorts of things. It was annoying.

"So Renae isn't her real name, then?" John clarified.

"Of course not," Mary piped up. She knew this concept all too well.

"Any chance you're going to tell us her real name?" John asked, curious.

Sherlock smirked. "Absolutely not."


	5. Chapter 5 The Great Advantage

Chapter 5

Even after a few sleepless nights, Sherlock didn't usually look this bad. She had stopped offering him coffee a long time ago, but out of the kindness of her heart, Molly prepared him a cup and set it on the table he was leaning on.

Sherlock's head bounced up, mouth half open and a blank stare on his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hair uncombed, and the arm that was holding up his tired head plopped down onto the table.

"Uh," he groaned as he spotted the coffee. His fallen hand gingerly raised the sweet black nectar of the gods to his flaky lips.

"You look awful," Molly's words were blunt but her tone was gentle, as usual. "Anything the matter?"

"My sister is in town. She came to visit at John and Mary's flat yesterday." For all his smarts, his brain wasn't coherent enough to instruct his hand to set the coffee back on the table.

"You have a sister?" Molly gasped and took a step back. "Sherlock, that's wonderful! Um… Why haven't you told anyone? Where does she live? Uh, what's her name?" She looked around the room as if she was chasing a thousand questions with her eyes, smiling like a fool. "Is she pretty? So she's the baby, eh? When do I get to mee-"

"Molly!" Sherlock spouted off, grimacing and rubbing his face with his free hand. "She's been under protection in America for twenty years. She is here now because that protection has been nullified - by her own doing, at that. She's the youngest. Beauty is a construct based on childhood impressions, influences and role models. As for where she's living now, I couldn't tell you because she did not contact me after her departure and Mycroft doesn't know where she is either." And with that he finally placed the coffee mug down and rubbed his eyes with both hands, making them even more red.

"You're worried about her," Molly smiled. "She sounds nice. I can't wait to meet her." She tried so hard to stay calmly optimistic. But Sherlock and Mycroft had a sweet little sister and they were worried sick about her! To the point that they contacted each other to discuss her whereabouts!

Suddenly Sherlock's hands dropped into his lap and he looked up at Molly curiously. "Really?" he clarified.

She thought quickly to remember what exactly she had said and responded sheepishly, "Of course, silly! I imagine all of London would want to meet her if they knew she existed."

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his coffee longingly. Then his eyes widened as he got closer to the mug, not making a sound. He continued to stare at it until Molly began to get concerned.

"Sherlock, what-"

"Hush Molly, hush," he whispered quickly. A second later, another tiny family of ripples bounced inside the cup. A moment of calm. Another ripple.

The two heard faint laughter, almost undetectable except for the silence given by their refusal to breathe and the noiseless morgue.

Sherlock jumped up, startling Molly, and marched toward the laughter. She didn't know whether to stay or go, so she just sort of shuffled backwards and forwards awkwardly.

He reached the door and held it open. "Well, come on!" He waved his hand at her.

He wanted her to go with him! She was going to solve a case with him again! "Oh!" she exclaimed as she virtually leapt towards the door with girlish delight.

The two stepped lightly into the hallway, trying to listen for the laughter. It came again, but this time there were two voices. Male and female.

Molly gasped. She knew that laugh. She stopped in her tracks and turned red with sweat. Her head dropped when Sherlock turned around, wondering why she wasn't keeping up.

"Molly," he whispered. "Come on, we're nearly there."

"It's Moriarty," managed to force out with great difficulty. She looked up at Sherlock.

He nodded his head, looked ahead, then looked back at her. "You don't have to confront him if you don't want to." And with that, he resumed hunting down the undead psychopath and who he feared was with him.

Molly stood there for a moment, watching him leave, when something was suddenly let free inside of her. He wasn't going to make her go. She could leave. Or… she could go hunt him down like the sick maniac he was!

She quickly caught up with Sherlock. He glanced at her before resuming his chase, when suddenly he halted. Too quick a stop to react in time, Molly bumped into his back and let out a small puff of surprise upon impact.

Sherlock's finger was on his lips. Molly froze, her mouth still open from having the wind knocked out of her and her body still uncomfortably close to his.

Laughter. From inside the janitorial closet to their left.

Sherlock stomped over and threw open the door to find exactly who he had deduced - Moriarty and Renae - sitting on the floor with their heads thrown back in laughter. Renae wiped her eye only to notice Sherlock and company had found her.

Sherlock glared at her disapprovingly. "Would somebody care to explain?" He looked from her to Moriarty. The two locked up cackling crazies glanced at each other before exploding in laughter once more.

"No, no I mean it," Sherlock shook his index finger, trying to sound cross but entertaining them beyond belief. "Moriarty, would you kindly explain to me what is your involvement with my sister?"

"Does it need explaining?" Moriarty stopped laughing to answer Sherlock's question. He was completely serious now. "Obviously she was the one on the phone with me on the roof yesterday. She came over for tea after visiting you and Mycroft."

Sherlock's face slowly turned to glare at Renae. "Bloody hell, Renae, what did he do to you?"

She shrugged. "Take a chill pill, bubba," Renae explained calmly. "I needed a place to stay."

Sherlock got down to her level and spoke painfully slowly. "You could have stayed with me or Mycroft. What on earth were you thinking? Does he even - Do you know who he -"

With Sherlock near the floor, Renae and Moriarty finally got a good look at Molly standing behind him. His coat had completely hidden her, and Renae's eyes lit up when she saw her.

"And who is this?" Renae nodded behind Sherlock's shoulder.

As if he forgot who exactly had followed him down the hallway, Sherlock looked behind him. "Molly. That's… Molly."

Molly smiled and walked forward. Even in a state of complete shock she hadn't forgotten her manners. "Hello! You must be… er… Sherlock's sister!"

Renae opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock got up and faced Molly. "Her name is Renae."

"Well sorry, it's just that you didn't tell me," Molly replied, trying to sound pleasant in the midst of an extremely unpleasant reunion.

"Hi Molly dear!" Moriarty waved and smiled.

"Um, hi," Molly stammered and looked down.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quietly.

"What?"

"I didn't tell you her name."

"Oh. It's okay."

Renae cleared her throat and pointed to Molly. "So you and her… How do you know each other?" she asked Jim.

He chuckled, his hands laying over his knees. "We went out a couple of times."

"Oooo," Renae's eyebrows bounced up and down and she wiggled her shoulders, her hands wrapped around her knees.

Jim smiled, "No no no, nothing like that."

"Oh?"

"We only went out three times. Sherlock broke it off," Jim's gaze turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Moriarty snorted, "He told Molly I was gay!"

"He did?" Renae guffawed and covered her mouth, not able to contain her laughter.

Jim winced and his shoulders rocked with laughter. "Oh yes! I think he really liked the note I left him - and the underwear."

Renae held her stomach as tears streamed down her face. "Stop - I can't - that's just -" and she gave up as she started laughing again.

"He told her and she ran to my office and was all, 'I just had the smartest man in the world tell me that you're gay, so I don't know what you're on about, but it's not going to be me, goodbye!'" He quoted Molly in a high-pitched squeal, being sure to add hand motions for effect.

"But you are," Sherlock defended himself. Molly had fallen silent and was bright red from embarrassment.

Renae put her hand on Jim's shoulder. "Sherlock, he knows exactly who I am. I know exactly who he is. We were a thing for a couple of years, actually."

"A couple of years," Sherlock repeated. Molly looked at him, concerned, but said nothing.

"Well, we weren't serious," Moriarty inserted.

"What would you call us, then? Frienemies?" Renae asked.

"Enemies with benefits?" Jim suggested.

The two on the floor threw their heads back once more and laughed loudly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and faced Molly. She was trying not to smile, but it wasn't working.

"Perhaps this isn't as serious of a situation as I originally anticipated," he conversed with Molly as his sister and sworn enemy continued to make jokes.

"Should I leave?" Molly didn't know if he was trying to make her go away or just make the situation less awkward.

Sherlock stared at her, confused, and blinked twice. "I see no reason why you should."

Molly smiled and nodded.

"John and Mary got your note," Sherlock directed his attention to Moriarty, who stopped laughing at the mention of the previous days' happenings.

Renae caught on. "You stole their baby?" She took her arm off of him. "That wasn't very nice." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but not overly emotional.

"She's fine," Moriarty assured everyone, lifting both hands off of his knees to wave them briefly, for emphasis. "She's being treated like a basket of kittens."

"I'm sure she is, you rascal," Renae slapped his knee before getting up, joining Sherlock and Molly. "Just giver her back when you're done."

Moriarty stared at the wall blankly, then a smug grin crept upon his face. "If Sherlock doesn't find her first, she'll make quite a sidekick in due time."

Sherlock's blood was boiling, but he wouldn't let his heart rule his head. "I will take the child off of your hands soon enough, Moriarty."

"'Moriarty'? Is that really what you call him?" Renae teased. "What about you?" she addressed Molly. "Did you have him in your phone as 'Moriarty'? Is that what British people do? Walk around calling everybody by their last name?"

Sherlock could see that this conversation was going nowhere very, very quickly. He held his sister's shoulders and directed her away from the janitorial closet. "Alright shut up, Renae. It's time to go."

"I'm a grown woman. You're just being overly protective."

Sherlock was inches away from her ear, so Moriarty couldn't hear. "He's a criminal mastermind. Anything could have happened to you."

She whispered back. "And I've spent my entire life learning exactly what to do if he or Moran or one of his wingmen pulls a fast one on me. Stop treating me like I'm five."

Sherlock went quiet.

"You know," Moriarty crossed his arms, still sitting on the tiled floor. "it's rude to whisper."

Molly took the initiative and slammed the closet door shut.

Without another word, the three started their trip out of the hospital. Sherlock was still irritated, Molly was thoroughly confused, and Renae was happier than a hurricane in Florida.

Sherlock clanged the teacup obnoxiously against the table, still annoyed at his sister and Moriarty's unorthodox relationship. There had to be a rule about the world's only consulting detective's sister staying away from the world's only consulting criminal.

Renae stared at the cup of tea before her, unmoved by her brother's temper. She was happy with the mutual passiveness between her and Jim; he didn't threaten her and she didn't threaten him. It was quite relaxing, actually.

Molly sat across from Renae at the table but didn't make a sound, wondering why exactly she was in 221B.

"Did you and Mycroft have a good visit?" Sherlock enunciated zealously, setting his own cup on the table and sitting between Renae and Molly.

"He hasn't changed a bit," Renae smirked. "One of the first things he said was that I was more living proof that caring is not an advantage."

"How so?" Molly chimed in. It sounded like something a Holmes would say.

"Well, I made the mistake of confiding in the only friend I had," Renae began. "I told her who my two brothers are, and she's apparently in cahoots with Moran's wingman."

"I'm sorry, what?" Molly nearly choked on the tea she had begun to swallow. Her high ponytail swung around as she faced the still aggravated brother. "Sherlock, would you mind telling me why I'm here?"

"I thought you two might get along." He refused to look at either of them.

"Sorry, let me start at the beginning." Renae smiled. "You remember hearing about the Carl Powers case? With the shoes?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, apparently Moriarty and Moran go back that far. They were in on it together, but got really upset when Sherlock solved it. They sent death threats and everything when he tried to get the police involved. A few years later, I was born, and right away Moran sent an accomplice to leave clues that they were planning to kill me."

Molly gasped. "That's awful."

"No joke. By the time I was five, the threats were so bad that the whole family was scared for my life. Since the police refused to get involved in the original case, the story behind a stalker didn't move them either. My family sent me to America with my mom's cousin. She's been like an aunt to me. She got married, had a few kids of her own, but always made sure I knew who I was."

"Wasn't it a bit dangerous sending you off to family?"

"The family connection is actually pretty distant. Nobody suspected anything. The friend I told was the only friend I ever told about my brothers. Obviously both Mycroft and Sherlock have international reputations."

Molly giggled, but quickly turned serious again as Renae continued.

"Moran called off the search a decade ago, but his wingman is still obsessed with finding me."

Sherlock thought for a moment before mumbling, "Moriarty. Moriarty told you this."

"You got it."

"And you trust him?" Sherlock challenged.

"No," Renae laughed, "it just makes sense. Moriarty would have already killed me if he still cared, which he doesn't - which means Moran cares even less. His accomplice, however, is consumed enough with it to make quite a few friends in order to find connections to me."

"So why did he ask you about caring being… not an advantage?" Molly raised an eyebrow.

"His point was that I shouldn't have become close to anyone, or I wouldn't be running for my life right now."

Sherlock got curious. "And what did you tell him?"

Renae smiled again and looked at her closest brother. "I reminded him of why he and you do what you do. That's proof enough that caring is an advantage."

Molly shook her head a little. "What?"

"My brothers seem heartless, but really they are the opposite." Renae placed her hand on Sherlock's while still looking at Molly. "The day I was sent away, Mycroft and Sherlock swore to protect me in the best way possible for as long as they lived. They would watch me from afar, through indirect contact, all the while making it look like they didn't care at all. Their lives' work has been dedicated to nothing more - and nothing less - than protecting me." She looked at Sherlock, who was staring at his cup of tea blankly. "For Mycroft, who was already involved in politics, it meant taking a minor position in the British government. Always watching, always checking up on me, through the most powerful ties between England and the US. For Sherlock, it meant becoming a detective - to devote his life to hunting down the man who wants me dead."

Molly's mouth had dropped open sometime during her speech. It was only now that she realized that a tear had rolled down her cheek.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Molly, stop that. Everything is alright."

"Oh Sherlock, just stop talking," Molly said as she wiped her cheek with a napkin.

"I was quiet the entire time!"

"Sherlock," Renae interjected, "it's okay. To an ordinary person this kind of situation might seem touching and emotionally triggering."

"Yes, exactly," Molly agreed. "Renae, you are so very brave."

Renae shrugged. "I think my brothers are braver. And more selfless. Their entire lives revolve around keeping me safe."

"Well, it's a real pleasure to meet you. An honor, really."

Sherlock smiled. Molly said she wanted to meet his sister, and he knew she would love Renae. They were more similar than they realized. Both were incredibly courageous and stood where they were in the face of all odds. Both cared about everyone except themselves and were living proof that caring, was in fact, an advantage.

"Molly is not ordinary," Sherlock couldn't help it, he had to defend Molly. "She isn't… she is quite clever, actually." Renae narrowed her gaze at him and a tight smile emerged.

Sherlock's text alert sounded. He stood up and quickly read the text. "It seems our kidnapper has given us our first clue."

Lowering the phone to show the photo that John had forwarded him, he continued, "It appears that we are going abroad."

The message bore a picture of the Sphinx with the words "GET SHERLOCK" spray painted on the side.


	6. Chapter 6 The Message of the Sphinx

Chapter 6 The Message of the Sphinx

The Sphinx wasn't as heavily guarded as the four originally anticipated, but they moved under the cloak of darkness nevertheless. Mary and Renae dressed in all black and each carried rope and a pair of night-vision goggles. John and Sherlock took the precaution of wearing dark colors, but stayed behind the ancient stone wall that separated them from the patrolled area.

"Now it's up to them," Sherlock commented as the two women weaved through the guards easily.

"We're in good hands," John assured his friend. "If anyone is cut out for this, it's Mary. And it sounds like Renae is quite the agent herself." He paused as they continued to watch the ladies disappear into the moonless black of the desert. "Has she ever killed anyone?"

"No idea," Sherlock whispered.

Mary and Renae had made it to the base of the stone structure, and were now searching for… Something.

"You look around the front, I'll start here and work my way back," Mary initiated, to which Renae nodded and the two separated. With night-vision goggles on, it took Renae almost no time to crawl around the massive front paw of the Sphinx and begin eyeing its face and neck.

Molly sat on the sofa watching telly, but couldn't rid her mind of Tom's dad. His family must be so distraught, she couldn't go another minute sitting idle. Then she remembered Sherlock's warning - she couldn't afford to put herself in danger.

Pish-posh, danger. What danger could there be in comforting a grieving family? She dragged her mobile phone off of the sofa armrest and scrolled through her contacts until she found Tom.

Moriarty had been enjoying a carefree night at the bar when he received a picture message from an unknown number. The photo was of five-year-old Renae with a target symbol superimposed onto her head. The text below read, "Remember me?"

Intrigued, Moriarty called the number and spoke calmly to the man who answered the phone.

"I was wondering if I would ever hear from you again."

The Russian man on the other end simply replied, "I think both of us would benefit from your plan to trap Sherlock."

Moriarty sighed. "And why is that, old friend?"

"Because I could simultaneously trap his sister."

Moriarty guffawed, "Are you seriously still onto this?"

"We could both get what we want."

"I do not want her dead anymore. I gave up on that long ago. She means nothing to me now."

"She means a great deal to me."

"Aww, isn't that sweet!" Moriarty chuckled, playing with the straw in his drink.

"Moriarty, what if I told you that I am slowly killing off anyone trying to get to her before me?"

"Now that - that borders on excessive, my friend."

Mary stayed below to keep a lookout while Renae climbed the arduous mission to the Sphinx's left eye. She had noticed a rolled up piece of paper stuck in one of the cracks left by thousands of years of sand erosion. It flapped in the wind but had been jammed in tightly so it wouldn't fly away.

She set her foot on the bottom lip of the giant statue and pulled the rest of her weight up before finding a new nook for her hands. It was getting hard, since she was starting to sweat, but she continued huffing and puffing her way up to the eye.

In one swift movement she yanked the paper out of the crevice, then began her journey down. It was much easier than going up. In that moment she decided that Sherlock would be the next one climbing a dangerously high sculpture, if the time ever came.

The two made it back to the waiting men without being detected. Sherlock's eyes had adjusted to the dark, and could see that though their outfits were covered in fine sand and scratch marks from the rocks, their ropes looked untouched.

"Did you use the ropes?" he whispered so faintly it was barely audible.

The two women glanced at each other and smiled sheepishly. "Nah," they answered in unison.

"Tom, I heard about your dad," Molly started as she curled up into a ball in the corner of the couch, a cup of tea in one hand and her phone in the other.

"Well thanks Molly, it's nice of you to call," he replied courteously.

It took a moment for Molly to realize that he wasn't going to push the conversation much further. She cleared her throat and continued, "If you or your mum need anything at all, let me know, okay?"

"Okay thanks… I should let you go now…"

"Wait," she interjected. "Do you have any idea why someone killed him?"

Tom breathed out through his nose and cautiously replied, "Molly, I really shouldn't be talking about it with you."

"Why not? I'm asking as a friend. Nothing more."

"I know, but you could put yourself in danger."

"What do you mean?"

"Trust me, the less you know, the safer you'll be."

Molly was a bit confused, but more irritated than anything else. "I'll be fine, Tom, just tell me!"

"I need to go. Goodbye, Molly."

And with that, the call ended. Molly shook her head and set the phone back down. It was only then that she realized her favorite show was nearly over.

"What does the note say?" John pressed impatiently as the other three seemed quite content to discuss whether or not Renae had been roped up for her climb up the Sphinx.

The four huddled into a corner as footsteps approached and then faded away. That was as close to getting caught as they had gotten. Renae put on her goggles and unrolled the tight scroll but quickly looked blankly at her brother and buried the note in her fist.

"What? Give it to me, Renae," Sherlock reached out but she just stared at him and shook her head.

The Holmes brother grabbed Mary's night-vision goggles and held out his hand until Renae handed over the paper. She put her head in her hands when Sherlock looked up a moment later, a flash of anger in his face.

"Are you going to tell us what it says, or are we going to play charades all night?" John hissed, much displeased by the lack of actual talking the last five minutes had offered.

Sherlock's voice was still quiet, but not quite a whisper. "It says, 'You really shouldn't have left Molly all alone.'"

"I told you, I'm not interested," Moriarty repeated, still as cool as a cucumber.

The Russian man was silent for a moment, then changed the subject slightly. "Do you remember 'Tom'?"

Moriarty smiled as he swallowed another sip of his drink. "Who wouldn't?"

"It seems that he tried to get to her first. I sent him a little message. He won't be bothering me anymore."

Moriarty rubbed his forehead and sighed. "You do know that Tom is a junior, right?"

Silence on the other end.

"Tom's dad is Tom as well. He was the man on the plane. He was returning from a business trip." He smiled at the prolonged silence. "You killed the wrong Tom, doofus!"

The killer on the other end finally spoke. "Where is our Tom, then?"

"In London," Moriarty offered excitedly. "And I know someone who used to be engaged to him. You might find her input… er… insightful."

The four were back at their hotel, still dressed in dark colors as they studied the frightening message.

"Look, the letterhead has the Eiffel Tower on it," Mary remarked. "Our next stop is going to be France."

"Someone needs to go back to make sure Molly doesn't get killed," Renae suggested, leaning over the paper with a magnifying glass.

Sherlock breathed in through his nose. "Who's it going to be, then?"

Everyone in the room stared at him.

An uncomfortable amount of time passed as Sherlock gave them all quizzical looks. "What? I wasn't volunteering!"

"Okay, I'll take you through it, Sherlock," John began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his hands behind his back. "No need to. You and Mary clearly want to go together, but you need one of us with you for our deductive abilities. You want Renae to come because she is younger and more agile than me. It wasn't a difficult jump."

"So you'll go, then?" John asked.

His friend sighed but nodded. "Fine."

"I'll take good care of them," Renae promised.

"Alright, you," Mary gave him a friendly pat, "get to Molly. Hurry."


	7. Chapter 7 Back In London

Chapter 7 Back In London

Molly put away the last corpse and cleaned her area. After she gathered her things she made her way out of the hospital and to her car. It was getting dark, but she could just make out the keyhole by the light of her phone. She sat down and looked into the distance as she gave a thumbs-up to someone afar off.

Yes, she was actually driving to and from work, for once. And everything seemed fine until she felt cool metal on her neck and heard a voice that sounded very New York directly behind her, "Just keep driving, sweetheart."

Molly broke out in cold sweat and tried looking at her captor, but he had on a plain white mask that didn't even reveal his eyes. "What do you want?" she spat out, scared silly but still able to keep her composure enough to drive without swerving.

The sound of sirens filled the air. Four, no, five police cars were quickly catching up to Molly's. Bright lights flickered all around them in the dimming light. Molly smiled nervously but refused to look behind her as she awaited the man's answer.

The cold metal sensation on her neck vanished and the voice behind her turned deep and not at all American.

"Nothing, I just wanted to make sure Lestrade was serious about keeping an eye on you," Sherlock strung out quickly, nonchalant of the massive police force encircling him.

Molly gasped and nearly stood on the brake pedal, then rubbed her brow with her thumb and index finger as she leaned against the steering wheel. She screamed Sherlock's name before whipping around in her seat and flailing her arms in his direction, only for him to curl up in a ball on the other side of the backseat.

Lestrade's voice could be heard through a megaphone: "You in the backseat, out with your hands in the air! Hands in the air!"

Sherlock's gloved hands peeped over the top of the car, followed by his headful of dark curls and sheepish grin. Lestrade almost dropped his megaphone, but brought it to his mouth again as shock gave way to rage.

"You bloody pillock, what are you doing in Molly's car?" he shouted as he marched over to Sherlock's side of the car, not putting down his device until it was in his face.

Scurrying up behind Lestrade, Molly exclaimed, "Do you have a problem with the police watching me _without_ your interference?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at both of them, then at all the other officers who had gotten out of their vehicles and were pointing torches at the three of them. He smiled, satisfied that Lestrade had kept his word, and without a word slid back into the car - the passenger seat, this time - and closed the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly shuffled over to his window and knocked on the glass.

He rolled down the window. "Get in!"

She let out a huff. "Excuse me? 'Get in'? You're telling me to get in? After the near heart-attack you put me through?"

"Sherlock, at least tell me what exactly you think is so funny about putting a mask on and scaring the poor girl to death," Lestrade had cooled down, but still had a busload of sarcasm lacing his tone.

"I was merely testing your capacity for keeping your word. If that masked man hadn't been me, I would like to know that you could've apprehended him with equal efficiency."

Lestrade was the one rubbing his forehead now, turning away from Sherlock and waving off the squad that had gathered. He turned back to the crazy man in Molly's car and stated through gritted teeth, "Well as you can see, I am quite capable."

Sherlock heard the door open and close across from him. He turned his head to see Molly, a disapproving glare on her face. He whipped back around to Lestrade. "Yes, well um… Sorry to cause a stir," he explained, then smiled weakly before glancing back at Molly. She was looking out the window, trying not to make eye contact.

"Just," the Detective Inspector started before pausing to moan one last time, "don't do that again or I will have you arrested. We've got her under close watch." He nodded, satisfied that he hadn't said anything he would immediately regret, and returned to his car, which Donovan was leaning against with a smirk on her lips.

Halfway to her flat, Molly finally broke the silence. "I hope you don't expect me to take you home," she scolded. She wanted the personal pleasure of sending him five extra miles in the opposite direction on foot.

The consulting detective sucked in some air and replied, "That won't be necessary, Doctor Hooper. I can manage on your sofa."

"What!" Molly squealed. "_You_… are _not_… sleeping in _my_ flat."

"Then I'll sleep in your car."

"Why?"

Sherlock looked down for half a minute, then inquired, "Why did you call Tom?"

Molly whipped her spare hand around the backseat, found her handbag and searched all the pockets and compartments for her mobile phone, without luck. Sherlock lifted his left hand from hiding at his side, holding the phone, and locked it with the tap of a finger.

"That's my personal property and you are not welcome to intrude upon it," Molly hissed as she pointed her index finger at him, eyes still on the road.

"It was a serious question."

She put her finger down. She had learned many things about Sherlock Holmes since first meeting him at St. Bart's, including when it was 'serious time.' And this was it. She glanced at him briefly before returning her eyes to the road, the black night enclosing around them.

"I was just checking on his family," Molly explained, the sentence broken into separate thoughts every one to three words. "Is that so bad?"

"It seems that way," Sherlock sighed as he put Molly's mobile back into her handbag and took the note from the Sphinx out of his pocket.

The next thing Molly saw in her peripheral vision was a small sheet of paper that looked like it had been beaten around in the wind and shoved between two bricks. It was unfolded, had a small Eiffel Tower printed at the top and a short message in the middle.

She gasped. "Sher-"

"Apparently Moriarty knew someone would be interested in finding you alone while the rest of us are abroad, so I was voted back home to make sure you… er… don't get killed."

"Nice, Sherlock… very delicate," Molly chuckled, trying to keep the mood light. Arriving at her flat, she turned off her car but neither of them got out.

"I have a feeling that this warning has something to do with Renae's stalker. When you talked to Tom about his dad, what did he say?" the detective asked as he steepled his hands under his chin.

"He said the less I know, the safer I'll be," the pathologist replied, not at all getting the connection.

Sherlock thought in silence for about a minute, the two still sitting in the car. Finally he spoke again. "Molly, did you ever find out if Tom is a sociopath?"

Molly looked down and half-laughed. "Sherlock, are we really bringing up this? Right now?"

"Remember what I told you? Not all the men you fall-"

Molly raised her voice. "I remember, Sherlock."

He nodded, a bit taken back by her interruption. Now what was he supposed to do? She didn't like the subject, but he had to have an answer. In the past he would have used some charming old trick to get his way, but that wasn't who he was anymore. Sherlock 2.0 wasn't that manipulative prat who took advantage of Molly with his puppy dog eyes, which she couldn't see at the moment anyway because not a bit of sunlight remained in the sky.

"I'm not asking for my own sake, but for yours. John, Mary, Renae and I want to get to the bottom of this kidnapping, and I am ninety-seven percent sure that Tom has_ something_ to do with it. Any information you are willing to give me, no matter how meaningless it sounds, would be of great help to me."

Letting out a sigh, Molly opened her door and replied, "Alright, Sherlock." She got out and started to close her door but realized that the man in her car hadn't moved a muscle. "Are you coming?"

"Ah, so I've been upgraded from car to sofa?" Sherlock asked, relieved.

"Don't tell anyone," she warned sternly. "People will talk."

On she short walk to her door, Sherlock thought of something else he had been wondering. "Just how exactly did Lestrade know you were in trouble? You gave him a thumbs-up."

Molly smiled a little, remembering the brief gesture at St. Bart's before she drove away. "That meant I wasn't okay. A wave means I am okay."

Sherlock gave one slow nod. "But only after you got in the car, you could tell something wasn't right. That's when you gave the signal."

"I could smell you," she stated a-matter-of-factly.

"Oh," he darted his head around awkwardly, wondering what he must smell like after being in an airplane, Egypt and another airplane for a total of three days.

"Don't - it's fine - I smell dead bodies all the time. Oh - I didn't mean - nevermind," Molly rambled, shaking her head at the end in an attempt to erase the poorly constructed compliment. It was a relief they were at her door; perfect opportunity to change the subject.

"Come in," Molly welcomed Sherlock as she unlocked the door and turned on a light in her living room. "Tea?"

"If it isn't any trouble," Sherlock replied courteously.

Molly made her way into the kitchen, which was closed off completely from the living room. Before she could even find the light switch she felt a hand over her mouth, stifling the scream that had arisen in her throat. She struggled against the other hand that wrapped around her from behind.

"Alright, Miss Hooper," the Russian man whispered, "what can you tell me about your ex-fiance?"

Molly stopped struggling and tried to steal a glance at the mysterious intruder without moving her head, but it was still too dark in the room and his face was completely behind her.

"Oh how rude of me," he said after her silence. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it sitting down." He released her but she heard a serrated dagger being pulled from a sheath and felt it poke the small of her back. He began prodding her back toward the door.

_Well, obviously he doesn't know Sherlock's here_, she thought. And why should he? The kitchen didn't have so much as a window opening up to the living area, something she had complained about daily until now.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, accompanied only by Molly's cat, who had already decided that Sherlock would make a suitable neck scratcher. He had never really interacted with a cat. This one sure was different than his childhood dog. Dogs were caring, compassionate animals, constantly attached to their humans by a bond of unconditional love. Cats, on the other hand, could take you or leave you. Sherlock liked that. Seemed more practical.

The kitchen door opened far too early and far, far too slowly. Molly swung doors open at the morgue like she was trying to escape a house fire, so this one, isolated slow opening set him on alert. He held his breath as Molly's tiny frame slowly emerged through the door. She barely lifted one arm, just enough for him to notice, and gave him a thumbs-up.


	8. Chapter 8 A Study In Toms

_Sherlock had plunged into his mind palace. He had exactly two and a half seconds to figure out what he had to do to save Molly. From anyone else's point of view, the information he had to work with would appear minimal, but the consulting detective specialized in minimal information. Time stopped as he sped through the deductive process._

_Whoever was hiding in the kitchen had to break into her flat somehow. No visible signs on the door or front window, so he's good… very good. Must be an expert. The kitchen is separate from this room, which means he could have cocked his gun without me hearing. Gun? No, no… stupid, not a gun, of course not. With the ability to break into a flat without a single trace, he doesn't need a gun. Plus, look at Molly, she's sticking out her stomach excessively, which means… knife. Serrated. Russian make._

_He has no idea I'm here, else why would he be leading her in here? I've got to get her away from him before I make myself known, else we'll all be standing here in a murder triangle - my gun pointed at him, his knife at her throat - but I also must disarm him, even just temporarily, to give her time to run._

_Engage gun butting and arm pull._

Snapping back into real time, Sherlock lunged forward and whacked Molly's attacker across the head with his handgun, just hard enough to send him to the floor in shock. The detective grabbed both of Molly's hands and swung her away from the door, immediately turning all of his attention back to the intruder. He had collapsed and his dagger flew backwards and clanked against the tile kitchen floor. Sherlock made a split-second decision to lean down and swing the gun at him one more time to knock him out, giving them considerably more time.

"Molly, run!" he shouted at her before sprinting out of the kitchen.

Molly had landed on the floor, against the sofa, and was rubbing her head. She was too relieved at Sherlock's quick interpretation of her distress signal to be angry at his means of tossing her across the room. She scrambled to her feet and started toward the front door, slightly disoriented from the blow.

Sherlock couldn't allow her to waste any more time by stumbling around like a drunkard, so he slipped his arm around hers and led her hurriedly out the door and toward her car.

"I forgot my purse," she whined as she realized where they were off to.

"Really, Molly," Sherlock remarked as he trotted faster, trying to be as gentle as reasonably possible considering the circumstances, "did you not recall leaving it in your car?"

She was too flustered and in too big of a hurry to make any sort of reply.

"Get in." He opened the passenger door and pushed down on her shoulder to encourage her to sit.

"Oi! I can drive my own car!"

"You can't even remember where you left your purse! I must have thrown you harder than I intended."

Somehow she ended up in the car, door closed, and her seatbelt on. She decided to take Sherlock's current remark as an apology and simply nodded as he started up the car.

Spotting the silhouette of the attacker emerging out of Molly's flat, Sherlock dropped his gun in her lap and sped off. The man was stocky, not at all tall, but was clearly an experienced killer. He couldn't make out anything else from the veil of darkness both inside and outside had offered, but he had deduced that he had just come face to face with the man that wanted his sister dead.

"If he starts running after us, shoot at him," Sherlock instructed.

Molly just blinked at him, then looked shyly at the gun lying in her lap.

Although Renae was the spitting image of Sherlock, John was beginning to see how much she resembled Mycroft in her mannerisms. She tilted her head to listen and put all her weight on one side when standing still (although not on an umbrella like her slightly obsessive brother), not to mention she got straight to the point of her deductions instead of rambling on about how she got to her conclusions and gloating over her massive intellect (such as Sherlock had the irritating tendency to still do after all these years).

But Renae also had something her brothers lacked: sentiment. She was completely genius, but also completely human in her thought process and emotional analysis. She had taken the time to foster the pleasures of social interaction and feelings that her brothers had all but shunned. Sherlock could solve your crime, but Renae could solve your crime and comfort the victim. She was everything everyone wished the two Holmes' brothers could be.

In addition, she and Mary had far more in common than any of them anticipated. There the two lovely ladies stood, feeding off of each other's extensive knowledge of self-defense, breaking into high-security buildings, and keeping secrets. As much as John loved to be involved in conversation, he was far too focused on the task at hand to be able to enjoy talk of assassins and weaponry.

He stared intently out the window of the Eiffel Tower elevator, taking in every inch of the way up, lest he miss a vital clue in his quest to recover his infant daughter. It was the last lift of the day, and the queue wasn't as long as they had feared. Although it was midnight, his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he took in every detail possible.

When the doors opened, nearly everyone poured out to enjoy the iconic view, but the three pushed ahead to try and collect as much data as possible before the crowd blocked their view. They had no idea what they were looking for, but they fell silent as the search for the next clue began. Mary began scanning the land below for perhaps a message ploughed into the ground. John continued analyzing every beam and bolt for something out of place, as he had visited the Tower some years prior. Renae swept the crowd for a lingering glance, a familiar face, or a signal to follow.

Her eyes darted toward a man in a long taupe trenchcoat, faced away from her, and making a beeline for a low-lying beam. He began writing something in black ink, careful not to disturb the graffiti left by many previous visitors on the iron slab and surrounding wall. Finished, he slowly looked around, spotted Renae watching him out of the corner of his eye, put his permanent marker back in his coat pocket and disappeared into the crowd.

Renae was the one making a beeline for the beam now. John and Mary noticed her sudden movement and nearly tripped over each other getting to her.

"A phone number," John panted. He programmed the number into his mobile phone and added, "I suppose we're meant to call it."

"Try FaceTime," Renae prodded.

The three stood against the wall of initials, profanities and gang symbols and waited for someone to answer the call.

A face lit up the screen. Moriarty's face.

"Well hello there!" he chirped, his Scottish accent further flavoring the air of the voices of tourists from all over the world. "I knew you couldn't go long without wanting to see my beautiful face again."

"Is Billie alright?" John demanded.

Moriarty lifted a small pink bundle to the screen, as if he had anticipated the question. "As you can see, she is perfectly fine." His voice dropped and he put his face closer to the phone. "For now."

"Moriarty," Mary growled slowly, "I will kill you for this."

He backed up, still holding Billie, and chuckled. "That's so maternal of you to say."

"Maybe so, but you and I both know what I'm capable of doing," she warned him, shaking her head slowly.

Although John didn't completely understand, he didn't waste time asking about the secret life he had already forgiven Mary of living.

It was Renae's turn to speak. "Still not sure why this is necessary, Jim."

"Because it's just so much fun watching you all dance to my music!" Moriarty's voice floated with joy.

"But why our daughter? What do you want with her?" John asked.

"Dear John Watson," the raging psychopath explained, "it was never about her. I'm getting to Sherlock eventually. But you already knew that." He slouched quickly on the last sentence and stared blankly into the screen, the same sickeningly empty stare he gave at the pool as Sherlock prepared to blow them all to pieces.

"I mean why her, why specifically her?" John asked again, this time emphasizing each word.

Moriarty looked down briefly before answering. "All in time, Dr. Watson. Oh look, it's sleepy-time for little Billie."

"Okay, so what's our next clue?"

"I'll send a postcard."

"I don't want a postcard, I want my daughter."

"Patience," he hissed teasingly. With a squint and slight smile the call was ended from his end, and the three were left in a tower full of tourists once again.

John shook his head and tried calling again, but an error message came up saying the number did not exist.

Molly had her neck bent around her seat the entire ride, making sure they weren't being followed. Her cold, sweaty hands cradled the handgun and she began to wonder if she had what it took to pull the trigger if the time came.

Sherlock hadn't spoken a word out loud, but deep inside knew that he had just come face to face with the man who wanted his sister dead. No deductions necessary - he just knew. The problem was, he had no actual proof, just that feeling, that intuition, that hunch that something was terribly wrong. It was a conclusion based on sentiment, and that scared him.

Molly didn't have to ask where Sherlock was driving her. When they arrived at 221B Molly decided to be the one to break the silence. "What did that man want?" Sherlock said nothing as they went inside and up the stairs, Molly a few steps ahead.

That familiar motherly voice piped up below him. "Sherlock!"

"What are you doing up, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock scolded gently as he made his way back down the stairs and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

"It's not that late," she defended herself, smiling. "I can't sleep until I hear you come in that door."

"How very worrisome of you."

She crossed one arm and waved her hand about her as she spoke. "Oh don't mind me. Did you come in with someone, or…?" Mrs. Hudson strained to see up the dark staircase, only to see nothing. "Oh, it sounded like two people."

"Just your sentiment getting to your head, wishing it was John," Sherlock explained. "I had better be going. I'm studying the decomposure of human flesh in different types of soil. And my cultures are probably ready…" He trailed off at the end, scampering back up the stairs.

"Goodnight, dear," Mrs. Hudson called after him, both arms crossed this time.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and noticed Molly sitting on the couch.

"I figured the less she knows, the safer she'll be as well," Molly started. "Sorry if I appeared rude. I really do like her. It's just-"

"No, I understand," Sherlock excused her, "in fact, it's better that she not know." But he was thinking of other reasons. She had nearly started to plan a wedding the day he brought John home with him, and now here he was with Molly Hooper in his living room! If there was anyone who could start a rumor, it was his landlady.

"Um," Molly started, a bit less timid and more determined to get her answer this time, "why did that man ask about Tom?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I don't like not knowing."

"Does it have to do with Renae?"

Sherlock's head had been hung in thought, but popped up at the mention of his sister. "Molly, are you absolutely certain Tom wasn't dangerous?"

Her eyes fell to her lap and she began wringing her hands. "I had my suspicions."

Sherlock waited patiently for her to continue, which she did.

"He was always quite secretive. At the time I thought it was because he was cheating on me, but after I had separated myself from it all I began thinking about it more logically." She smiled and looked up, so proud of herself for her newfound deductive skills. "He had never shown me his driver's license, yearbook, family history… nothing that would share more about him than he was willing to tell me. I couldn't marry a man like that. The thought sort of gave me the creeps."

"Well you are justified in your 'creeped out' feelings," Sherlock commended, "but obviously he wasn't cheating on you."

"I know that now, but what does it all mean, then?"

Somewhere in the midst of their conversation Sherlock had found himself on the other end of the couch with his hands steepled under his chin, eyes shut. "It means he's a psychopath that you were planning on marrying and it's best that you stay away from him from now on and Molly why do you keep dating dangerous men?" He glared at her disapprovingly at the end of his run-on sentence.

Molly just stared back, all too familiar with the unsubtle way Sherlock inflicted his opinions on everyone.

"Fine. Then tell me Tom's dad's name," Sherlock shot up to go make tea.

She only had to think for a moment. He had accidentally let it slip one night while drunk. "His name was Tom as well."

"Aha! Don't you see? This has nothing to do with Billie and everything to do with Renae! Oh yes, elegant." He tossed spoons and small pots filled with soil and human fingers around the flat while preparing their tea.

"No, Sherlock, I don't 'see'," Molly thrashed sarcastically.

"Your ex-fiance's father, found dead in the cargo area of the plane, had just returned from America. Tom seemed very secretive about his father's death, even to you, not to hurt you, but to keep you from knowing too much. Oh yes, yes! Brilliant!" He was jumping up and down in the kitchen now, the kettle boiling over.

Molly just nodded occasionally and patiently waited for her cuppa.

"One would think that after the father died, all the fuss would be over. But no. Tonight we find a man in your kitchen demanding information on your ex-fiance! Don't you see?"

Molly was picking her nails now, but glanced up at Sherlock's question, a curious and vaguely nervous look on her face.

"Their names are the same! Their names… are the same!" Sherlock began pouring the tea while bouncing excitedly. He had a skip in his step as he brought the tea to the sofa.

A gentle tap on the door. "Sherlock, are you talking to your skull again?" Mrs. Hudson asked soothingly.

Molly tossed herself behind the sofa in one swift movement and Sherlock jumped toward the opening door. "Ah yes, Mrs. Hudson." True, he had never before spoken that loudly to the skull on his mantle, so she had good reason to show concern.

"Why have you got two cups of tea?" the landlady inquired, genuinely concerned for her tennant.

"I uh, made it for you!" Sherlock stuck out the cup in his left hand and gave her a courtesy smile.

"Oh, Sherlock," she clapped her hands together and cocked her head to the side, "you are the sweetest thing when you want to be." With that, she took the tea and returned downstairs.

Sherlock turned around to see Molly peeping over the sofa.

"Well then," Sherlock looked at the remaining cup of tea awkwardly before placing it in Molly's hands. He didn't wait for her to thank him. "As I was saying," his voice was considerably softer this time, "the fact that the two men have the same name is key. Why would the killer go straight from killing the father to attempting to find the son?"

"Somebody doesn't like his family?" Molly suggested.

"Or," Sherlock held up both index fingers for a moment, "he killed the wrong Tom the first time."

"But why would someone want Tom dead? My Tom, not old Tom. I mean… You know what I mean."

Sherlock paused, then his eyes widened. "Because he is out to kill my sister."


End file.
